


The Spiraling of Sam Winchester

by Winnie_Chester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Unrequited Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 20:48:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2402366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winnie_Chester/pseuds/Winnie_Chester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam was very clearly circling the bottom of one of those very quite breakdowns that he wouldn’t tell his brother about.</p>
<p>You don't have to have read it, but this is sort of adjacent to  <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2284899">"The Dark Interior Life of Sam Winchester."</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spiraling of Sam Winchester

Sammy was spiraling. Sam was clearly circling the bottom of one of those very quite breakdowns that he wouldn’t tell Dean about. But Dean could tell because, well, he wasn’t fucking blind and he’d known the kid his whole life. 

But tonight? Right now?

Dean could tell because it was 5 am, and instead of being in bed asleep as he ought to be, Sam was sitting outside on the hood of the car in the rain in a t-shirt with nothing more than what appeared to be a bottle of whiskey and a cigarette— where the fuck had he gotten a cigarette?—to keep him warm. 

Sam had been doing this, though without the rain and the bottle and certainly without the fucking cigarettes, for the last two weeks. He’d thought Dean had no idea— and if Dean hadn’t been _Dean_ , with his hunter’s instinct and his sixth sense for Sam, he might not have known how his brother spent his nights. Sam was always tucked back in bed by the time the sun came up, pretending he hadn’t spent the proceeding hours doing whatever the fuck it was he did out the there under the street lights. 

Sometimes Dean wondered if Sam thought he was really that stupid. Even if the snick of the door hadn’t awakened him immediately--hadn’t had him fully alert, gun in hand before Sam had even closed it all the way--the smudges under Sam’s eyes would certainly have given away that something was going on. 

And Sam had been withdrawn and off in the daylight, too. Short sentences, barely eating, acting like Dean had burned him if they happened to touch, jumping at the first chance he had to go alone to the library or to run to get dinner by himself. He’d taken to long runs and long showers, and cleaning his guns more then strictly necessary. Twice he’d gone to bars by himself, which he never did, and come back looking positively wrecked. 

Dean had noticed because of course he had. This wasn’t the first time—wasn’t even the seventh—Sam had gotten like this, but Dean had never managed to figure out what, exactly, was bothering his brother. Which isn’t to say Dean hadn’t tried. Of course he tried—he tried every goddamn trick in the book to get Sam to talk. But whatever it was, Sam had it bottled up so tight Dean couldn’t even begin to get at it. He guessed it had something to do with that recurring nightmare—the one Sam would never share the details of but always had him hurling his guts out when he woke up—but that was as far as Dean had gotten in his investigation. 

It had become a thing that happened regularly enough that Dean knew, by now, it would resolve itself eventually, all though that didn’t keep him from worrying himself sick. 

Dean worried about Sam. Dean always worried about Sam—worrying about Sam was ingrained in his basic programing—but he could barely take it when he was like this. And the fact that there was nothing he could do, nothing Sam would let him do, was fucking torture. 

There is nothing worse than being unable to help someone you love. There is nothing worse than that which you cannot fix.

So Dean usually let Sam be. He pretended to be unaware of what his brother did with his evenings. He tried to keep everything light, normal, and pushed his worry down far enough that it wouldn’t creep into his voice, his eyes. He ached for Sam, longed to help shoulder whatever burden he was carrying, but Sam had made it very clear that this was something he would do alone, that there was no room for Dean in this fight. And Sam here was better than Sam gone, better than Sam someplace where Dean couldn’t reassure himself that his brother was still breathing. So Dean forced himself to say nothing. 

Which isn’t to say Dean _did_ nothing. Dean did everything he thought Sam would allow. He forced him to eat, to sleep. He let him drive a little bit more, and he gave him just enough space. But most importantly, every night Dean sat behind the motel room curtains and he watched his brother out the window. 

It wasn’t that Dean really thought Sam would use his impeccably clean gun—if he had, he’d have him strapped down somewhere—but he had to keep watch. He wanted to be there just in case Sam decided to flirt with the idea. Just in case he need to remind his brother how incredibly stupid and selfish that would be. How utterly unable to go on his big brother would be. 

But he knew Sam wouldn’t actually go through with it, which is the only reason Dean let him anywhere near his gun when he got like this. Dean realized it was deeply fucked up, that it said something very twisted about their relationship, but Sam knew that killing himself would be signing a death warrant for his brother too, and Dean was grateful for it. Dean was grateful for anything that kept his brother alive. 

But tonight, tonight was different, shaded darker than every other night. The rain, the whiskey, the cigarettes. Dean had been debating what to do for the past half hour—he and Sam had this whole look-the-other-way thing down to a science—but he just couldn’t anymore. Sam outside, alone at night, fine. He hated it, but fine. But drunk? In the rain? Dean couldn’t abide it anymore. 

Like every night, Dean had slipped into jeans and a t-shirt the moment Sam had gone outside, so he only needed a moment to put on his boots and coat before he was ready. He grabbed Sam’s coat and the blanket off his own bed, too. It was October, and Sam had to be freezing.

Sam didn’t acknowledge the door creeping open, didn’t turn to look at his brother, but Dean saw him tense, knew he was aware. Sam had hunter’s instincts too. 

“Sammy? What are you going?”

Sam took another drag of the mysterious cigarette, but didn’t turn his head.

“Go away, Dean.” Sam’s voice was scraped, hollow. Dean ignored him, and sat down on the hood. When Sam didn’t move, he decided to risk draping his brother’s coat over his shoulders, then the blanket. It wasn’t pouring, but it was cold and it was raining enough that Sam’s shirt was stuck to his skin. Sam’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t shrug it off. 

Dean decided to press his luck, and plucked the damp cigarette from his brother’s long, thin fingers and put it to his own lips. Dean almost never smoked, but he understood the appeal. He liked the fire in his fingers, liked the taste of ashes in his mouth. 

“Not a bad idea kid, I really think I’m going to take up smoking.” Going for light, jokey. Dean leaned back on the hood, cradled his head in his arms, and watching the smoke curl out of his mouth. 

Sam ignored him.

Dean tried again. “I can see why you are out here. Baby looks extra gorgeous all wet.” Dean patted the hood lovingly and took another inhale before reaching up and passing the cigarette back to Sam. Sam still hadn’t looked at him. 

“Seriously. Go away.”

At least he’d said something. Dean let several beats go by, then tried another tactic, voice softer. “Tell me what is wrong, Sam. I’m here for you. You know that.” 

Sam gave a laugh Dean couldn’t read and the pushed off the Impala, stalking off, bottle in hand, towards nowhere in particular. Just away. 

“This isn’t—“ Sam’s voice was pitched all wrong. He sounded as on edge, as nearly hysterical as he felt. He took a swig of whiskey and then tried again. “This isn’t something you can help me with, Dean. This isn’t something you fix. “ Somehow Sam had circled back towards his brother, towards the car. Dean had that effect on him sometimes, like he had his own gravitational pull.

“Let me try.” Dean slid off the car and went towards his brother, raising his hands to grip Sam on the shoulder, or maybe pull him into the hug he so clearly needed. Sam blocked him.

“No! Just leave me alone!” Suddenly Sam’s head was spinning, from the whiskey or the cigarettes or maybe just from the exertion of having to deny what he wanted most in the world. But he couldn’t. 

He couldn’t let Dean touch him, couldn’t let his brother be sullied by his filthy mind, by his fucked up desires. Not now. Not after the dream. It was one completely sick thing to wake up hard and throbbing to a dream of your brother’s mouth on your dick, his fingers knotted in your hair, and a whole different one to do the same when you’d dreamed Dean hadn’t even wanted it. Sam was dirty, and maybe a little dangerous, he couldn’t let himself get too close. 

He let his desperation bleed into his voice. “Please. I just need to be alone. Please. I’m begging you. I just—I need this, okay?”

Dean had failed. Again. He couldn’t get his brother to confide in him, to trust that he could help. That he’d do anything to help. This was destroying Dean as fast as it was destroying Sam, and there was nothing he could do about it. He felt useless, sick. 

What good was saving the world when he couldn’t help the person in the world that mattered most to him?

Dean studied his brother. The wet hair, the wild, haunted eyes. Dean was such a fucking failure. He let the silence gather for a moment before he spoke. 

“Okay. I’ll go. But, uh, promise me you will be okay. Okay? I just, I need you to be okay. More than anything.” It wasn’t eloquent, it wasn’t nearly what he wanted to say, but it was the truth. 

Sam held his gaze. “I’ll be okay. I promise.” And for a moment, it was. For a moment the words didn’t taste like a lie. 

Dean wanted to squeeze his brother’s shoulder, wanted to tug him back inside where it was warm and dry, but Sam wouldn’t have allowed either of those things, so instead he turned around and went inside, alone. 

Sam was spiraling, and there was nothing Dean could do but watch and wait.


End file.
